


And This Was Odd Because It Was the Middle of the Night

by biextroverts



Series: The Bisexual Clara Memorial Project [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 14:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5294462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biextroverts/pseuds/biextroverts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 9x10. Clara Oswald is brought back to life at the end of "Face the Raven", but is unable to leave the trap street. She takes up residence with Mayor Me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And This Was Odd Because It Was the Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "The Walrus and the Carpenter" by Lewis Carrol.

     For all the disadvantages Clara assumed came with mayoral duties of an alien street hidden in the middle of London, the lodgings were a distinct perk. The living room of Ashildr's residence on the trap street was exquisite: a fire crackled in the enormous, ornate brass fireplace, and the sofa on which they sat, as well as the chairs which flanked it, was a deep, wine red and incredibly cushiony, with claw feet made of some fine dark wood. The rug was luxurious, thick and well-woven, and the candles, held in elegant sconces, cast a dim, romantic glow over the whole room. The grandfather clock which stood against the wall behind them ticked in soothing rhythm as its pendulum swung. It was like a scene out of a Jane Austen novel, or perhaps something by one of the Brontë sisters- beautiful and period, but cozy.

     Clara wondered if she could memorize every detail of the room. It would certainly provide a relishing challenge- with the added benefit, of course, that it would take her mind off the tension which charged the air between herself and Ashildr. If she was being honest with herself, she was as good as imprisoned on this street, and with this woman whom she barely recognized as a friend. She turned at the waist to look at the clock, trying not to catch sight of Ashildr, out of the corner of her eye. The clock was contained in a case made of the same kind of burnished wood as the feet of the chairs, and its hands and metronome of polished brass of the same vein as the fireplace. Watching the second hand make its rotation, she was overcome with unease that knotted her stomach like thick rope. Of course she was ill at its sight, she thought. Time in its natural progression felt so wrong...

    Without turning her head or looking at Ashildr, she spoke. “What did you do to him?”

    “What did I do to whom?” Ashildr asked evenly. Clara glanced over at her. She sat ramrod straight and still, gazing into the fire as if she could see all of time in the flickering flames. The illness in Clara's stomach turned sickly green and acidic. “Don't play games with me, Ashildr-”

    “Me.”

    “I don't bloody well care what you call yourself, Me. You know who I mean. What did you do to the Doctor?”

    Ashildr smiled slightly. “I'm not nearly as big a player in these things as you seem to think, Clara,” she said. “I concern myself with my street, not with the politics of the wider universe. I promise you I'm nothing more than a means to an end to the ones who took the Doctor”.

    “And who are they?” Clara asked. Anger had risen up in her throat, making her voice come out rough and choked-sounding. She hated that it made her sound like she was on the verge of tears, although she was- she could feel them pricking the corners of her eyes.

    “I don't know,” Ashildr said.

    “You don't-” Clara spun to look at Ashildr straight on. Her head spun, and she turned back to the clock, clutching the back of the sofa to steady herself. “Fine. Tell me what happens to me, then. How much longer do I have to stay cooped up on your trap street?”

    Ashildr looked up at Clara. There was rare sympathy in her eyes. “I told you, Clara,” she said. “We can't let you back into ordinary London. Your mind is too strong for RetCon.”

    “Well then why did you save me?” Clara asked. Her mouth tasted bitter and her voice shook slightly. She had been braver when she died than she was now. “Why, if the Doctor's god-knows-where and I can't even leave this bloody street?”

    “Because I promised you unconditional protection,” Ashildr said. “I don't break my promises.” She rose to her knees on the sofa and placed a hand on Clara's shoulder, and Clara turned to face her again. Ashildr was looking into her eyes with her own sad ones, ones which had seen more than they could possibly remember, though her gaze kept trailing down distractedly to Clara's lips.

    “Like hell you don’t!” Clara shouted. “What happened to everything the Doctor did for you?”  
  
    “You mean how he left me to outlive everyone I ever cared about? Yes, I’m sure he did that for me,” Ashildr snapped.

    “I can’t believe you!” shouted Clara. She was leaning over Ashildr now in an attempt to intimidate her- few people were less imposing in stature in herself, but Ashildr, thank god, was one of them- and then Ashildr cupped a hand around the back of Clara’s neck and caught her lips in a kiss. Clara’s heart skipped several beats and she blinked before reciprocating, closing her eyes and bringing one hand to Ashildr’s back and the other to her neck, pulling her in closer. Clara pushed Ashildr down so that they lay on the sofa, the back of Ashildr’s head against the armrest. She felt Ashildr’s hands on her shoulder blades, fingernails digging just a little into flesh, and she let out a soft moan against Ashildr’s mouth. “When did you learn to kiss?” she breathed.

“Before you were born,” Ashildr replied. “Now shut up.” She pressed her lips against Clara’s again and Clara let herself melt into it, not even complaining when Ashildr rolled them over so that it was Clara’s head against the armrest and Ashildr on top of her, kissing her as if she’d been waiting thousands of years to do so- which was implausible, Clara conceded, but flattering.  
  
    “How long have you wanted to do this?” she asked when there was a break in the kissing. Her voice was light and breathless, and she felt like she was missing something with  Ashildr’s mouth not on her own. She blinked up at Ashildr with dark, heavy eyes.   
  
    “Longer than I can remember. Any more questions?”  
  
    “No, ma’am,” Clara chuckled, then pulled Ashildr back down. This room would see decidedly more passion than the setting of any Jane Austen novel she’d ever read.

**Author's Note:**

> Up next: Clara/Osgood Con Artist AU


End file.
